


monochromatic

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: (sorry), Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Heavy Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Pining, and I do mean HEAVY, and thoroughly abuses the Leafs and Toronto in the process, in which the author explores the tragedy that was That Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-28 17:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: The worst part, he thinks sometimes, is that he doesn’tknowwhat they were to each other.Werethey anything? Was it just the way Gabe is with everyone? No, Tyson thinks. No, Gabe wasn’t like that with anyone else on the team. Not… like that. Gabe didn’t sit too close to anyone else, graze their thigh with his knuckles, touch their hand for a little too long.Unless Tyson had been imagining it.Had he been imagining the way Gabe watched his mouth sometimes, too? The way his gaze would flick down as Tyson talked, or ate, or licked his fingers, and how his eyes would go dark?Probably. The result of Tyson wanting it so much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, Toronto is a lovely city. I've been there several times, my best friend (and beta, heyooo) lives there, please don't take any of this personally. Likewise I have no problems with the Leafs themselves (except for you-know-who) and I like several members of the team quite a lot.
> 
> Second, please see the end notes for more details. This story WILL have a happy ending, I swear, but it's gonna hurt like a motherfucker first, and I'm going to make some choices that may have y'all out for my blood.
> 
> Third: RPF, work of fiction, no disrespect intended, etc.

He’s pretty sure the world used to be in color. Vibrant even, the leaves glowing in fiery hues as they clung to the trees that marched up the mountains that ringed his city. _ His _ city. The one that had embraced him, loved him, supported him. Taken him third in the draft, welcomed him into their hearts.

He remembers blue. Not the dark blue and white of the Leafs jerseys—cerulean like Nate’s eyes. Azure like—he jerks his thoughts away before he can go there. _ There’s _ dangerous territory. He’s left _ there _ and he’s never going back. He can’t. They don’t want him.

Red. He remembers red. The maroon of the jerseys. The orange of JT’s hair. The strawberry blond of—god_dammit _.

Ralph snuffles his face, worried. Tyson used to get on the floor to play with him all the time, but he doesn’t usually lie down on his back and just… stay there. 

Tyson wants to lift a hand to pet him, tell him it’ll be okay. He’s not sure when he stopped believing it would be.

After awhile, Ralph flops beside him. Tyson closes his eyes again.

Green and yellow and pink and brown. 

Toronto… Toronto is a beautiful city. Tyson knows this, intellectually. It’s not a patch on BC, obviously, but it’s got a charm all its own. He’s big enough to admit that much.

He hates it.

He tries to hide it, of course. He’s a good Canadian boy—he would never be so rude as to spit in the faces of the fans who’ve welcomed him so enthusiastically. He’s even—distantly, dimly—grateful to them. They’ve been kind to him. 

But God, how he hates this city. He hates the grey sky. The tumbled charcoal buildings, leaning against each other and blotting out the weak sun. The narrow, twisting streets. Even the cold feels different here, heavier somehow, like a frigid blanket of fog wrapped around his mind and snaking through his limbs. It weighs him down, makes him tired all the time. 

It lifts, a little, when he gets on the ice. It lifts a little more when he’s with Kerf, who understands, watches him with sad eyes and says nothing as Tyson tries to smile at fans when they’re out together. They don’t talk about it, what they left behind. They don’t talk about much of anything, really. Kerf comes over most days, plays with Ralph, watches ESPN with Tyson, cooks dinner for them both in Tyson’s kitchen.

He’s finding a place on the team, and Tyson’s happy about that, he is. He loves seeing Kerf happy, especially after he was taken from JT and Josty the way he was. The Rookie House is no more, and Tyson knows Kerf is hurting, deep down.

But he’s also smiling and it’s real. He’s scoring goals, making plays. The boys on the Leafs, for the most part a riotous, unpredictable mob of children with a few seasoned players sprinkled in, are beginning to listen to Kerf when he speaks, put his suggestions into action and get results.

That’s good. Kerf deserves to be listened to.

Tyson rolls over, cheek to the carpet. It smells a little dusty, a little soapy from the last shampooing, right before he moved in. He’ll have a weird pattern on his face if he stays like this for too long.

He falls asleep.

When he wakes up, someone’s banging on the door. Tyson lifts his head and then puts it back down. He doesn’t really care, he’s decided. They’ll go away eventually, or it’ll be time for practice soon and he’ll go out and pretend everything’s fine all over again.

But the banging doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder, and finally Tyson sighs and drags himself to his feet. Ralph dances around him as he trudges for the door, and Tyson stifles the pang of guilt.

“I’ll take you out as soon as I deal with this, okay?” he promises, and swings the door open to see Kerf, a pinched frown of worry on his forehead.

“You’re not answering your phone,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, what’s got you so worked up?”

Kerf pushes past him into the apartment. “You missed practice. And I called and called and you didn’t answer. Why do you _ think _ I’m so worked up?”

Tyson closes the door with a sigh. “I fell asleep, man. It happens. I’m sorry about practice but it’s not like I missed a game or something.”

“No!” Kerf says, and Tyson blinks. Kerf takes a deep breath and gentles his tone. “Something’s _ wrong _ with you, Tys. I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. You’re—you barely go out with the team, and you leave the second you think you can. You don’t joke. You don’t _ smile _ anymore.” He shoves his hands through his hair, leaving the curls wild and on end. “I miss your smile,” he says quietly, and Tyson’s eyes sting.

He takes a breath through his nose. “I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?” Kerf shoots back. He bends to pet Ralph, who’s abandoned Tyson in hopes of attention from their guest, and Ralph wriggles with joy. 

“What do you want from me?” Tyson snaps, suddenly fed up. “You know the deal. You know I didn’t want this. I d-don’t want to be here, I—” He sucks in air. “I just need time, okay? Just… I need to adjust. It’s taking longer than I expected. I’m sorry, man. Please just—”

Kerf steps in close. “Nate’s been trying to call you. Gabe, too—”

Tyson flinches hard. _ “Don’t.” _

Kerf holds up his hands and backs away. “You need some fresh air. Ralph looks like he could use a walk. Let’s go, okay?”

Numb, Tyson nods. “I just—bathroom.” He escapes down the hall while Kerf grabs Ralph’s leash. Safely inside, he stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are dull, hair sticking up on one side. Sure enough, he has a crosshatch pattern on his face from the carpet fibers. If things were normal, if he were _ home, _ he’d snap a picture and text it to the team so they could make fun of him. 

He looks away.

—

Life goes on.

Tyson plays hockey. Poses with fans. Pours his heart out on the ice and pretends everything is fine. He even texts Nate back sometimes, because he misses him like a phantom limb. He shuts him down hard when Nate mentions Gabe, though. He doesn’t answer the texts Gabe sends him daily, but he reads every single one.

There’s a selfie of Gabe and Zoey, Gabe smiling brilliantly at the camera and Zoey’s tongue lolling out in a doggy grin. Tyson saves it to his phone.

Sometimes the texts are short—_blueberry bagel for breakfast_—and sometimes they’re longer—_Nate’s really stepping into the A. Guys look to him for leadership and he’s growing up fast. Lost most of that temper, but he's still got that fire. _Sometimes Gabe sends him pictures of the team, or the view out his window. Every morning, without fail, he sends Tyson a text.

Tyson doesn't answer any of them.

He makes an effort and goes out with the team more. He never lasts long, but he’s able to pretend for an hour or two, especially after a winning game. He likes most of the team, even if it’s distant and vague. Mitch is an excitable puppy who reminds him of Ralph but with better hockey sense. JT—not his JT, of course—is solid, quiet, with a dry sense of humor most people don’t seem to get. He deserves to be captain and Tyson is happy for him. Morgan’s been a good friend for awhile, and his solid, quiet presence is encouraging. Auston—Tyson could do without him. And Freddie—it’s not his fault. He’s a good guy, quiet and watchful. But every once in awhile, Tyson catches a glimpse of his hair out of the corner of his eye. It’s not his fault, nothing he can do, but Tyson can’t stop the traitorous twist of his heart, especially when Freddie’s in the sunlight and the red-orange of his hair is washed out to a more strawberry blond. He avoids Freddie, which makes him feel guilty, but he doesn’t know how to explain. But the rest of the team is made up of good guys, guys who deserve the success they’re achieving.

Still, he makes his excuses after an hour or two every time and ducks out amid their protests to go home and crawl into bed with Ralph. He knows he should feel guilty about that, but he’s too tired to try.

His agent calls him a few months later. Craig’s the type to always be hearty even when news is bad, so Tyson isn’t terribly encouraged by his blustery voice down the line. After the initial greetings are out of the way, Craig gets down to business.

“You’re about to become a UFA in a month or so. Have you thought about what you want to do?”

Tyson… hasn’t, honestly. He’s been so consumed with homesickness that he hasn’t given much thought to the future.

“Do you want to stay with the Leafs?” Craig asks.

“No,” Tyson says immediately. Craig says nothing, and Tyson winces. “They’ve been good to me,” he says. “They really have. But I don’t… I don’t want to stay in Toronto.”

“Well, the good news is, you haven’t lost your edge,” Craig says. “Plenty of teams want you.”

“The Avs?” Tyson blurts, and then squeezes his eyes shut, mortified.

Craig’s silence tells him what he needs to know.

“Forget it, sorry,” Tyson says. “Stupid question.”

“I’d have told you first thing,” Craig says, and his voice is gentle. “But their defensive core is really developing well. Meshing. They don’t need another d-man right now.”

“Yeah.” Tyson stares at the wall, the pattern swimming before his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

“But there are a lot of other places interested, and some of them have put together offer sheets for you. If you don’t want to stay in Toronto, where do you want to go?”

“I don’t care.”

“Tyson,” Craig says.

“I _ don’t,” _ Tyson snaps. “Look, I just—you know me. You know how I play, what I like in my teammates. Send me the top three offers, the ones _ you _ think would be a good fit for me. I’ll let you know.”

When he gets the details, he prints the pages out so he has physical copies of each offer. Ralph dances around his bare feet as Tyson stands in the middle of his living room, holding the pages.

“Ready?” he asks Ralph, who barks.

Tyson throws the papers in the air. They swoop and swirl around him, fluttering to the floor in a silent eddy. Ralph bounces around sniffing the pages, tail wagging wildly.

“Pick one,” Tyson tells him.

Ralph licks his chops. Sits down and yawns. Then flops sideways, tongue lolling out.

Tyson kneels and pulls the page out from under his body. It’s a little crumpled, and Tyson smooths it flat. Then he finally looks at it.

“Oh,” he says. Ralph blinks at him. “I guess we’re going to North Carolina, buddy.”

—

He doesn’t tell anyone but Kerf, who hugs him and tries to hide his suspiciously bright eyes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach them. Guilt crawls through the fog in Tyson’s mind. Kerf was yanked away from his home too, lost the teammates he loved too. And now Tyson’s leaving _ him. _

—

Gabe calls him when the news breaks. Tyson watches the phone ring until it finally falls silent. It starts up again a minute later, and Tyson counts the rings as it vibrates on the table. He wonders if Gabe’s at home, maybe barefoot in his sunny kitchen with Zoey snoozing at his feet. Or maybe he’s in the car—he always lectured Tyson about the importance of driver safety and hands-free equipment while on the road.

Six rings. The phone goes dark again and Tyson gets up and goes into his cramped little kitchenette. Behind him, the phone begins to ring again.

The worst part, he thinks sometimes, is that he doesn’t _ know _ what they were to each other. _ Were _ they anything? Was it just the way Gabe is with everyone? No, Tyson thinks, making tea on his tiny stove. No, Gabe wasn’t like that with anyone else on the team. Not… like that. Gabe didn’t sit too close to anyone else, graze their thigh with his knuckles, touch their hand for a little too long.

Unless Tyson had been imagining it.

Had he been imagining the way Gabe watched his mouth sometimes, too? The way his gaze would flick down as Tyson talked, or ate, or licked his fingers, and how his eyes would go dark? 

Probably. The result of Tyson wanting it so much.

He makes tea on autopilot, thinking about Gabe, takes one sip and spits it back out, sputtering. He doesn’t _ like _ tea, what the fuck? He picks up the box on the counter. It’s Gabe’s favorite brand. Tyson racks his brain but he can’t for the life of him remember ever buying it. When did it get in with his things? Maybe he bought it _ for _ Gabe, years ago when they thought they had time.

Tyson dumps sugar in the tea and tastes it. Not much of an improvement, but still—he carries the steaming mug to the living room as his phone rings again. He curls up on the couch, bare feet tucked underneath him, and wraps his hands around the warm ceramic. He closes his eyes and remembers.

_ “Why do you drink this? It tastes like piss.” _

_ Gabe raised a judgmental golden eyebrow. “How do you know what piss tastes like, Tys? Is this some hidden kink of yours?” He was lounging at Tyson’s kitchen table, arm draped over the back of his chair and his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cobalt blue mug looked small in his big hand as he took a swallow and sighed happily. “You just need to expand your palate.” _

_ “So I can appreciate the taste of piss? No thanks.” Tyson stretched his legs out too, knocking against Gabe’s foot. “I’ll stick with coffee.” _

_ “I try and I try to educate you.” Gabe looked mournful. The early morning sun struck his hair, haloing him in red-gold. “You ready?” _

_ “I’m never ready for running,” Tyson grumbled, but he stood and stretched, grabbing his elbow and bending sideways, left then right. When he looked up, Gabe was watching him, and heat pooled low in Tyson’s belly. He arched his back and preened, just a little, then bent to touch his toes. Silence from the other side of the table. _

_ Tyson focused on stretching his quads, hamstrings, calves, one rep after the other, breathing slow and steady through his nose. _

_ Gabe’s chair creaked against the floor as he stood and rounded the table. His shoes appeared in the edge of Tyson’s vision. White Nikes, a piping of dark blue. Tyson didn’t look up, delicious anticipation making the hair on his arms stand up. Gabe didn’t move for a minute. Then he took a step forward and bumped Tyson sideways with his hip. _

_ “Move over.” _

_ Tyson huffed a laugh, staggering a step over, and Gabe’s eyes gleamed bright blue in the morning sun as he grinned at him and dropped into his own stretching routine. _

_ Zoey divided her time licking whoever she could reach until they were sufficiently warmed up, muscles loose and ready. _

_ “Let’s do this,” Gabe said, and snapped Zoey’s leash on as Tyson held the door. _

Tyson opens his eyes. There’s no point in crying. Crying won’t solve anything and he’ll just end up with a stuffy nose and swollen eyes. He takes a sip of his cooling tea and grimaces only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gif destroyed me and it's about when I decided I finally had to express my sadness about this damn trade.
> 
> Tyson Barrie is made for laughter and teasing and joy, not for grim acceptance and sad eyes. 
> 
> Also, and I swear this is not me trying to drive traffic to my Tumblr, but if you want a spoiler about what's going to be the end result of this fic, [please pm me on my blog](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com/ask). It may not be your cup of tea and I want to respect that.
> 
> Special thanks also to dizzy-redhead, who helped me make this even angstier than it already was. (I promise there is NO DEATH and there will be a happy ending.)


	2. Chapter 2

The Canes are delighted to have him and they show it. Tyson feels mildly embarrassed by the amount of exclamations made over his appearance when Jordan Staal takes him through the locker room, but it’s clear the emotions are genuine. Tyson’s been doing his homework, reading up on everyone so he’s able to put faces to names reliably. He meets Joel and Jake and Trevor, all D-men, all happy he’s there and excited to see what he’ll do. Sebastian is quiet but openly pleased to meet him, Teuvo a little more outspoken.

Brind’amour makes a nice speech officially welcoming Tyson to the team and everyone applauds. Tyson gives a dorky wave and makes a mental note to tell Nate what an awkward idiot he was—Nate will find it hilarious. 

They hit the ice and as always, things settle down in Tyson’s head as soon as he steps on. The crisp crunch and slide of his blades is as soothing as ever, and he works through warmups and then pairs off into passing drills as Coach suggests. The D-corps is boisterous and rowdy, bumping and jostling each other, yelling cheerful obscenities over a fumbled pass, shouting suggestions for improvement when Fleury whiffs a shot that mostly seem to include penis-size enhancers, for some reason. 

Joel gets a lot of shit about skate guards, and Tyson makes a mental note to look that up. He concentrates on keeping his passes sharp and clean, but when McGinn misses the puck Tyson sends to him at speed, he can’t help joining in the gleeful mockery.

When he gets off the ice, he’s dripping sweat, exhausted in every muscle, but there’s a smile on his face and it doesn’t want to leave.

After the shower, Joel, Brock, Haydn, and a few others catch up with him and insist on taking him out to eat. Tyson accepts with almost no hesitation and follows them out to the parking lot.

Raleigh is a beautiful city, although Tyson can tell he’s not going to enjoy the humidity when it really gets going. Still, the trees have actual color, green and bursting with life, birds shouting from the branches. Tyson keeps his window down and breathes in the sweetly scented air. It’s going to take some getting used to, but the atmosphere is good. Maybe he can make this work.

He texts Nate over lunch as the guys jostle around him, getting comfortable, a quick selfie with Joel half in the frame over his shoulder and Brock blurry behind them.

“So what do I need to know?” he asks once everyone’s settled.

Haydn dunks a chip in salsa and shoves the entire thing in his mouth. “Keep guys off Sepe,” he says around the mouthful, and gets an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

“Fucking gross,” Jake grumbles. “But yes. Seabass is fast as fuck but he gets stressed when he’s got too many guys hassling him. He doesn’t like to fight, he’s got us for that.”

Tyson nods. “Anyone on the team gonna be trouble?”

He’s met with blank faces.

“You mean like a pest? Svech is kind of a troublemaker on the ice,” Brock offers.

“On the ice, off the ice. Anyone need babysitting, an extra close eye kept so they don’t do anything stupid?”

He gets a few slow head-shakes. 

“The rookies are all paired with vets,” Jake says. “We use the buddy system here and we make sure everyone’s accounted for.”

Tyson nods. “Good. That’s good. You guys like it here?”

Jake glances around the table. “Yeah,” he says when he looks back at Tyson. “It’s… good. The city loves the team. Coach is great, the staff is too. People here will give you the shirt off their back.”

“‘Specially if you sign it,” Haydn adds. His mouth is full again, but Jake just sighs, clearly defeated.

“So, anyone special gonna be coming to join you?” he asks Tyson, who stiffens.

“No,” he says, short and clipped, and then can’t figure out how to soften it. 

Jake blinks. “Okay. Girlfriends, wives, they’re welcome, but just so you know, Pride Night isn’t lipservice around here. We take it seriously. Act homophobic in any way and we’ll ice you out so fast you’ll think it’s the Arctic. We clear?”

Tyson stares at him. “I—yes. Clear. Not gonna be a problem.”

“Good.” Jake nods.

“There’s a betting pool on when Sepe and Turbo are gonna admit they’re into each other,” Haydn pipes up. “You want in?”

Tyson stifles a half-hysterical laugh. “Give me some time to get to know them. I’ll let you know.”

He’s got a text waiting for him from Nate when he gets back to his new house. Tyson takes Ralph out into the backyard and lets him gallop around as fast as his short legs can carry him while he reads it.

_ U look good, _ Nate says. _ How is it? _

_ Better than expected, _ Tyson types back. 

_ Guys nice? _

Tyson starts typing a response, then gives up and calls him.

“Hey!” Nate says. He sounds startled. There’s a lot of noise around him, people talking and background chatter that makes it hard to hear him.

“Bad time?” Tyson asks.

“No, just finished practice,” Nate says.

Tyson winces. “Forgot about the time difference, sorry. I’ll let you go.”

_ “No,” _ Nate says quickly. “Goddammit, I haven’t heard your voice in months. How _ are _ you?”

Tyson swallows an unexpected clog in his throat. “I’m okay,” he says.

“Are you really?” Nate asks. “Because Kerfy texted me a lot, you know. He was worried sick about you.”

Ralph goes lolloping by, ears flapping, and Tyson watches him. 

“I’m… better,” he finally says honestly. “I’m not great. I don’t know if I’ll get there. Can we just… leave it at that?”

“Who’re you talking to?” someone demands. It sounds like Josty. “Is that Tyson?”

There’s a scuffling noise, Nate yelping in outrage, and then a thunk, like the phone’s been dropped. Then more scuffling, and Josty arguing loudly.

“I just wanna talk to him!” 

“Fuck off,” Nate retorts, and then he’s back. “Sorry, Josty’s being a brat again.”

Tyson swallows again. “Let me talk to him.”

Nate’s silent for a minute. “You sure?”

“I’m not breakable,” Tyson snaps. “Just… I’ll say hi and then he can give you back.”

There’s more silence, and finally Nate sighs.

“Hey Tyson!” Josty sounds exactly like always, and Tyson almost smiles.

“Hey Tyson,” he says, and if it’s a weak approximation of his usual teasing tone, Josty’s kind enough not to point it out. “How’s it going? You keeping JT in line?”

Josty promptly launches into a story at length about something JT did recently, and Tyson listens and makes appropriate noises and tries not to pick out any recognizable voices in the background.

After a minute, he clears his throat. “Okay buddy, it’s great to hear your voice, but give me back to Nate, eh?”

But it’s not Nate who comes on the line next, it’s JT. “Tys?”

Tyson closes his eyes and forces happiness into his voice. “Hey bud!”

It goes like that around the room, being passed from one person to the next. Even Cale says hi to him, even though Tyson only knew him for about five minutes, and at the end of each one, Tyson’s nerves are stretched to breaking. He asks whoever he’s talking to—Gravy, he thinks—to pass him back to Nate, and Gravy cheerfully agrees. There’s rustling and more voices, too muffled to hear, and then silence.

“Nate?” Tyson asks.

“Don’t hang up,” Gabe says.

Tyson’s heart seizes. He doesn’t remember how to speak.

There’s no more background noise on the line, like Gabe maybe ducked into the hall or a conference room where he wouldn’t be overheard.

“Tys,” Gabe says.

Tyson still can’t make words form.

“God, Tys.” Gabe’s voice is thick. “You—you’re not answering my calls.”

Ralph is investigating the wooden fence. From the way his tail is going, he’s enjoying whatever he’s found.

“I miss you,” Gabe says, pleading, and the first tear slides down Tyson’s cheek.

He says nothing, knowing his voice will give him away, and Gabe takes a shaky breath.

“I text you every day.”

Tyson knows. Receiving those texts is simultaneously the best and worst part of his day.

“Why….” Gabe hesitates. “I thought—”

“I have to go,” Tyson manages.

_ “Wait,” _ Gabe begs, but Tyson’s already wrenching the phone away from his ear and stabbing at the call button. He stumbles back inside, the tears already flowing hot and fast, and barely makes it to the couch. Sinking down onto it, he buries his face in the cushions. 

_ Just once. Just this once. _

He lets the sob rip through him, the force of it shaking his whole body as the phone in his nerveless hand begins to ring again. 

—

When the worst of the tears have passed, he lies quietly, drained and limp. And he remembers.

_ It was 2016. They were on a winning streak, inching their way up the standings in a slow but steady climb. Tyson was at the top of his game, his passes to Gabe and Nate so quick and controlled some people called it telepathy, the way he knew where they were at all times and could get the puck to them no matter what. _

_ “‘S’not telepathy,” he protested, laughing as Gabe read him the article. Tyson was collapsed across Gabe’s hotel bed, alcohol making his limbs heavy and warm. He could feel a bubble of mirth under his breastbone that refused to be dislodged. He rolled his head so he could see Gabe, still in his gameday suit, the tie tugged loose and hanging down his chest, shirt unbuttoned halfway down. “‘Sides,” Tyson continued as Gabe took his jacket off, “you guys read _ my _ mind as much as—” _

_ Gabe sat down beside him and Tyson blinked, forgetting what he was going to say. Gabe’s thigh was big and solid, right next to Tyson’s face. He was smiling down at him, eyebrows raised like he was actually interested in the nonsense Tyson was spewing. _

_ “As much as?” Gabe prompted when Tyson didn’t continue. _

_ “As much as what?” Tyson asked. _

_ Gabe flopped back against the pillows and laughed, arms over his stomach like he couldn’t control the mirth. Tyson laughed too, mostly because the sight of Gabe happy made _ him _ so happy it was like a burr in his chest, something that caught and stole his breath. He wriggled around like a landed fish on the bed until he was able to see Gabe’s face. _

_ “I don’t ever want to play anywhere else,” Gabe said when he finally sobered. He was looking at Tyson, his eyes dark in the dimly lit room. “I want to retire with the Avs. Me and you and Nate and EJ. All of us. This is our team.” _

_ “Yeah,” Tyson said, smiling at him. “Yeah, me too.” _

_ Gabe’s answering smile lit up the room. “That’s settled then.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me I promise I'll fix it


	3. Chapter 3

“You have to talk to him.” Nate sounds determined but not angry. “Tys, you  _ have _ to.”

“No.” Tyson turns on the camera so Nate’s face pops into view—thankfully at his house, and not the locker room—and puts it down on the kitchen counter where he can see him as he makes dinner.

Nate sighs. “You really don’t understand.”

“So educate me.” Tyson pulls the chicken from the refrigerator and rummages for the rest of the ingredients.

“He’s a wreck,” Nate says as Tyson straightens. “He’s not sleeping, he forgets stuff, he’s distracted and moody and he snaps at everyone. Even the rookies. Sometimes especially the rookies.”

Tyson frowns. “That doesn’t sound like Gabe.”

“You fucking think?” Nate’s mouth droops. “He won’t talk to any of us. You  _ have _ to talk to him, Tys, I’m serious. The team is suffering.”

Tyson glares at him. “That’s not fair.”

Nate shrugs, clearly unapologetic. 

“It won’t help anything,” Tyson says. He rests a hip against the counter, staring at the squash waiting to be sliced. “It  _ won’t. _ There’s nothing to be done. He needs to put his big boy pants on and get over it.”

“Like you’re doing?” Nate shoots at him.

Tyson’s glare redoubles. “I’m  _ functioning, _ asshole.”

Nate clutches his head.  _ “Why _ are my two best friends the stupidest people in the  _ world,” _ he moans.

“Hey!”

Nate drops his hands. “I mean it. I can’t believe how fucking stupid you guys are. You’re both miserable and if you’d just  _ talk _ to each other—”

“There is. Nothing. To. Say,” Tyson says through his teeth. “Gabe wants to retire with the Avs. That’s  _ his _ team. He’s the face of the goddamn franchise, and they don’t want me. What is there to talk about?”

“Clearly nothing,” Nate says. He’s scowling just as hard as Tyson. “Just answer me this. Do you love him?”

Tyson drops the chicken. He uses the opportunity to duck out of sight and school his face before standing up and giving Nate a blank look. 

“Don’t even  _ think _ about lying to me,” Nate says.

Tyson deflates slightly. Nate waits, eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Tyson finally says quietly. “Happy? I love him.  _ Have _ loved him for a long fucking time.”

Nate drops his face into his hands. “Why didn’t you  _ say _ something?” he demands when he emerges.

“Because I thought we had  _ time,” _ Tyson spits. His traitorous eyes are stinging again. Ralph ambles over, worried by his tone, and whines plaintively at him. Tyson crouches to pet him, whispering reassurances. When he stands, he’s more composed. “You can’t tell him, Nate.”

“But—”

_ “No.” _ Tyson gets close to the phone to better make his point. “You  _ cannot _ tell him. Promise me. Promise you won’t say anything about what we just talked about.”

“I don’t understand,” Nate says. He sounds miserable. “If you love him, and I’m pretty fucking sure he loves you, then why—”

“Because we’re most of a continent apart,” Tyson says through his teeth. “Because he’s the face of the franchise for the Avalanche. He loves it there, and the fans adore him. Saying anything, even if— _ especially _ if—he feels the same way, would be asking him to make a choice. Me, or hockey. I won’t do that to him.”

Nate sighs. “This is so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Tyson agrees. “Tell me what the team’s up to.”

He listens and makes the appropriate noises and asks questions as Nate regales him with stories, and after awhile the worst of the stinging behind his eyes eases and he’s able to take a deep breath again.

—

He settles into life in Raleigh slowly. The team makes him very welcome, and, Tyson finds, every spare minute off the ice can be filled with activities. He goes out with them, plays paintball and goes to bars, over to the married teammates’ houses for dinner, and out on the river with Ralph. They explore hiking trails and downtown, even up into the state parks and going on day trips to visit the nearby mountains.

Joel especially becomes a good friend. He’s still new to the team too, still finding his own footing, and he and Tyson bond over learning the ins and outs of the team, figuring out where they fit on the blue line. They find good chemistry together and end up paired more often than not, something that suits them both.

It’s not perfect. Tyson still looks for red-gold hair out of the corner of his eye. He still flinches when someone mentions Sweden or even Ikea, damn it all. But he’s able to put it away, pushed to the back of his mind so he can focus on his game.

Maybe it’s not what he wanted, but it’s better than he expected. 

—

Getting sick is never fun, especially for someone as extroverted as Tyson. He has to seal himself off, away from people, and being alone with his thoughts, even consumed by sneezing and coughing as he is, is a recipe for disaster. 

On the second day, hot and feverish and possibly delirious, he calls Coach to let him know.

An hour later, Joel lets himself in the front door. 

Ralph barks happily and bounces to greet him.

Tyson would lift his head from the couch cushion, but he thinks it weighs about a thousand pounds currently. “Some guard dog,” he croaks, then sneezes.

Joel’s on his knees, babytalking Ralph in a ridiculous voice. He looks up and grins at Tyson, who promptly sneezes again.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Joel asks. “Or took care of your dog?”

“I fed him this morning, asshole,” Tyson says, then sneezes three times rapidly. “He’s doing— _ achoo! _ —way better than me.”

Joel unfolds himself from the floor. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Tyson falls asleep while Joel is on his phone, talking to someone in a quiet voice. When he wakes up, he’s alone, Joel and Ralph nowhere to be found. Tyson smells chicken soup and his stomach growls. There’s a pot on the stove, he finds when he makes it into the kitchen, slow and careful, head spinning, and a note on the counter in Joel’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

_ TOOK RALPH. EAT, SHOWER. YOU REEK. I CHANGED YOUR SHEETS, GO TO BED. _

Tyson finds a bowl and fills it with soup. Sinking to a chair, he props his head on one head and eats as much as he can before the spoon gets too heavy to move. Then he puts his head down on the table and falls asleep for a few minutes.

When he wakes up, he feels—not better, but slightly less like he’s dying. He manages to put the soup in the fridge and then staggers down the hall to his bedroom, putting his phone on the bedside table before heading to the bathroom. A shower sounds amazing.

He nearly falls asleep again  _ in _ the shower, but manages to stay upright for a cursory dry-off before stumbling naked to his bed and collapsing across it.

Joel is a god, he decides. He reaches out and snags his phone, rolling sideways just enough to see the screen.

_ I love u, marry me, _ he texts him.

_ Oh good, ur not dead, _ Joel responds.  _ Ur dog is great, can I have him? _

_ Fuck u I don’t love u that much, _ Tyson retorts.  _ Seriously, thanks. _

_ Anytime, bro, _ Joel sends.  _ Get some rest. _

Tyson decides that’s the best idea he’s ever heard.

He sleeps for the rest of the day, wakes up to use the bathroom and get more soup, then goes back to bed, still naked. 

The sound of the front door opening wakes him up in the morning.  _ Joel bringing Ralph back, _ Tyson thinks. He stretches, yawning, and evaluates. He’s weak, shivery, exhausted in every fiber, but the fever seems to have broken, leaving him drained but aware again.

“Bedroom,” he calls. Footsteps head his way and Tyson debates putting clothes on but decides against it. Joel’s seen it all. He won’t care. Tyson rolls over, sheet twisting around his hips, and plants his face in the pillow with a yawn. Maybe he can con Joel into bringing him breakfast.

There’s a tap on the bedroom door.

“It’s open,” Tyson manages through another yawn. 

The door swings open.

“Did you bring my dog back or do I have to pay a ransom?” Tyson asks, still facedown in the pillow.

“Tyson,” Gabe says.

Tyson sits up so fast his head spins and he loses his balance, toppling over sideways. Gabe lunges to catch him, hands solid and warm and undeniably real and  _ what the fuck. _ Tyson scrambles backward, the bedroom swooping in dizzying swings around him, and fetches up against the headboard. He plants his feet on the bed and stares.

Gabe straightens. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes and shoulders drooping. His hair is dull and flat and his skin doesn’t have its customary glow.

“Um. Hi,” he says when Tyson doesn’t say anything.

Tyson needs another minute or two to remember how words work, but he finally finds his voice. “What… the  _ fuck.” _

A frown flickers across Gabe’s forehead. “Nice to see you too.” His voice is clipped.

“What are you doing here?  _ Why _ are you here? How the  _ fuck _ did you get in my house?”

“Your goddamn Hide-a-Key, Tyson, I’ve told you and told you,  _ don’t _ leave it out so obv—”

Tyson holds up a hand to cut off the flow of words. “How did you know where I  _ lived?” _

Gabe shifts his feet at that. “Front office?”

“Which you were able to talk to  _ how?” _ Tyson’s head is still spinning. Maybe the fever hasn’t broken after all. Maybe he’s hallucinating this entire thing. 

“Are you not following the news?”

Tyson just stares at him. “I’ve been running a fever for two days,” he says slowly. “I couldn’t even take care of my  _ dog. _ Why would I be checking the fucking news?”

“Are you feeling better?” Gabe asks instead. He drops his bag and bends as if to check Tyson’s forehead, but Tyson shies away, a hand out to stop him. Gabe freezes, hurt shadowing his eyes.

“Gabriel,” Tyson croaks. His vision’s going a bit dark at the edges. “Explain.”

“I’ve been traded to the Canes,” Gabe says.

“Oh,” Tyson says blankly, and passes out.

He comes to an indeterminate amount of time later to Gabe kneeling on the bed beside him. Tyson’s face is wet. His first wild thought is he’s been crying. His second is that  _ Gabe’s _ been crying  _ on _ him somehow. A damp washcloth touches his cheek then, and Tyson feels like an idiot.

“Come back,” Gabe murmurs. “Come on, Tys, please—”

Tyson sighs and opens his eyes. Gabe is leaning over him, worry on his beautiful face, but it clears into a smile when Tyson meets his gaze.

“Hey,” he says.

It’s too much. Tyson can’t do it. He turns his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

After a minute, Gabe sighs and slides off the bed. “I’m going to make you some food,” he says quietly. “We’ll talk later.”

Tyson means to get up too, put some clothes on, check his phone, do any number of other things that need doing, but somehow he falls asleep again instead.

He dreams.

It’s fragmented in the way of dreams, flashes of images that only make sense in the moment.

His phone is ringing and Tyson knows it’s Nate without looking at the screen.

“Did you hear?” Nate sounds excited, almost breathless.

“Hear what?”

“Gabe’s finally serious about someone!”

The room goes cold, plunged into darkness, and the dream shifts.

He’s facing Gabe on the ice and Gabe won’t look at him, won’t even acknowledge his presence, lips tight and eyes on the puck about to drop. Tyson’s not a forward, he shouldn’t be on the faceoff but somehow he is, and he has to fight Gabe for the puck and—he wins. He knocks it between his own skates and back to Joel, who races off with it.

Gabe skates around Tyson like he’s not even there and goes in pursuit.

Ralph is human, and he’s crying in Tyson’s arms.

Tyson is knocking on Gabe’s door, begging him to open it. He can feel tears hot on his cheeks as he pleads, but the door stays shut. He knows Gabe’s inside, can hear everything Tyson is saying, and he knows he’s laughing at how pathetic Tyson is.

He’s in the Avs locker room, standing in the very center of the room as the team mills around him, dressing for a game. Tyson turns in a circle. Josty looks at him, frowning as if confused, then turns to JT and says something in a low voice. JT looks up and frowns too, shaking his head.

Nate is at his stall. Tyson opens his mouth, says his name, but nothing comes out. Nate’s not looking at him, focused on getting his chest protector in place. Tyson says his name again.

Nate

Nate, look at me

Nate, I’m right here,  _ please _

It’s like suffocating with lungs full of air, the struggle to speak, to make his voice heard.

Nate looks up and his eyes land on Tyson. His forehead creases. Then he shakes his head and turns away.

Tyson’s chest seizes. He staggers back a step. Movement catches his eye and he looks up, into Gabe’s face. There’s no recognition in his eyes.

_ “Tyson,” _ a voice says in his ear, and Tyson snaps awake. He’s crying and he can’t stop, tears rolling down his cheeks and body heaving with sobs. There are arms around him, a body pressed warm all along his back. Tyson hiccups a breath and struggles for air. “Deep breaths,” Gabe says. “Don’t fight it, let it out.”

Tyson closes his eyes and obeys. He cries for a long time, every sob feeling as though it’s being pulled out of him, taking some of the poison in his soul with it each time. Gabe holds him through it, murmuring in his ear, so soft Tyson can’t make out the individual words. His heart beats a steady rhythm against Tyson’s back.

Finally, an eternity later, the tears taper off into ragged breaths, wet and heavy. He’d only thought he was drained before. He doesn’t think he could move now if his life depended on it. They lie quietly, Gabe’s breath warm on the back of his neck.

“Why are you here?” Tyson finally asks. His voice is small and exhausted.

“I’m here for you,” Gabe says quietly.

Tyson shakes his head helplessly. He’s too tired to argue, too tired to make sense of anything.

“No more talking.” Gabe’s voice is still quiet but it has steel in it. His captain voice. “You need to rest, hydrate, and eat. We can talk everything out when you feel better. Do you think you can sleep again?”

Tyson flinches at the thought.

“I’ll stay with you,” Gabe says. “I’ll wake you up if you start dreaming. Okay?”

Tyson manages a small nod. It takes a while but eventually he falls asleep again. 

He does feel better when he wakes up, still dizzy but not as disoriented. Gabe is in the same position, the arm over Tyson’s waist heavy with sleep, breathing slow and regular.

Tyson wants to stay like this forever. He also wants to punch something. Gabe’s perfect face, maybe. That would be a good start.

He works his way out from under Gabe’s arm in stages until he’s free and can slide off the bed. The bathroom is his first stop. He takes a minute to brush his teeth after he uses the toilet, then studies himself critically in the mirror. He’s lost weight, his cheeks almost hollow and dark circles under his eyes. He grimaces at his reflection and leaves the bathroom.

Gabe is sitting up, yawning, and Tyson stops. Gabe looks up, sees him, and immediately wrenches his gaze away to stare at the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” Tyson asks curiously, because as much as he still kind of wants to punch him, Gabe’s also acting weird. Weirder than usual. 

“Nothing,” Gabe says. Something on the ceiling seems to be absolutely fascinating. 

Tyson takes a step closer. Gabe is  _ blushing, _ he realizes.

“Okay, what the  _ fuck _ is going on with you?”

“You’re very—” Gabe gestures vaguely without looking. “Naked.”

Tyson gapes at him. “You’ve seen me naked more than my mom at this point, why are you acting like this?”

Gabe pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you just—put on some clothes.”

Tyson rolls his eyes. “Sorry to offend your sensibilities, I guess.” He stalks to the dresser and drags out soft pants and a shirt. Halfway through pulling the pants up, dizziness rolls over him again and he can’t help the gasp as he clutches the dresser for balance.

“You okay?”

Tyson doesn’t bother answering, focused on staying on his feet, but he can hear Gabe slide off the bed and approach him.

“Tys?”

Tyson opens his mouth to say something sharp but his knees buckle first. Gabe catches him around the waist before he falls, pulling him upright.

“Put your arm around my neck,” he directs, and Tyson scowls but obeys. Gabe reaches down and takes hold of his pants, pulling them up and settling them around Tyson’s waist. Then he reaches for the shirt but Tyson jerks it away.

“I can do that myself,” he snaps. 

“You should lie down.”

Tyson nearly growls at the thought, lip curling. “I’m sick of bed.”

“Fine. Couch? Can you walk?”

“If you try to carry me, I swear to God I’ll murder you,” Tyson says through his teeth, and turns to make his shaky way out of the bedroom, down the hall to the living room. He’s breathing hard by the time he gets there, exhausted in every fiber, but he suppresses the grateful moan as he sinks onto the couch cushions and drags the shirt on over his head before lying down.

Gabe had stayed right on his heels during the journey, but now he leaves him to go into the kitchen. Tyson can’t see him, but he hears rustling and the clanking of a pan on the stove.

“I’m making omelettes,” Gabe says.

Tyson doesn’t see the point in replying. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift, lulled by the quiet domestic noises. Gabe is in his kitchen. Gabe is  _ cooking _ for him. Gabe—

He sits bolt upright. “You got  _ traded _ to the  _ Canes?” _

Gabe drops an egg and swears. “I already told you that,” he says crossly when he stands up from cleaning it off the floor.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” Tyson says. “Would you—I can’t—get  _ over _ here so I can yell at you properly, goddammit!”

Gabe sighs, turns off the stove, and rounds the counter to perch on the edge of the couch. Out of punching range, Tyson notices. 

“Go ahead,” Gabe says, sounding resigned. “Get it out of your system.”

“What the  _ actual _ fuck, Gabe?” Tyson demands. “Why would you—did the Avs decide they didn’t want you? Did they get rid of you too? Why would they  _ do _ that—” He’s looking for his phone, ready to call whoever will answer and yell at them until they take Gabe back.

“No,” Gabe says quickly. “Tys, no, they didn’t—I could have stayed.”

Tyson goes very still and looks up at him. Gabe’s watching him with clear trepidation on his face, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“So you did choose to leave,” Tyson says slowly.

Gabe nods.

_ “Why.” _

“I told you already too. I’m here for you.”

Tyson can’t breathe. “I can’t—Nate told you, didn’t he?”

“Told me what?”

“That I loved you. I need my phone. I need to tell Nate  _ exactly—” _

“Tyson,” Gabe interrupts, and there’s a smile spreading across his face. “Nate didn’t tell me anything. But you sure just did.”

_ Fuck. _ Tyson drops his head into his hands with a moan. He hears rustling as Gabe scoots nearer.

“Can we rewind the last two minutes?” Tyson asks without looking up.

“Nope,” Gabe says. “Tys. Would you look at me, please?”

Tyson sighs and looks up.

Up close, Gabe is even more devastatingly handsome, his blue eyes soft as he takes Tyson’s hand in both of his.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “I asked for a trade to the Canes because I didn’t want to play hockey without you, because it’s not the  _ same _ without you. I thought about retiring, you know that?”

Tyson manages to shake his head, even though the rest of him is paralyzed.

Gabe’s eyes are sad now. He sweeps his thumb over Tyson’s knuckles. “You know how much I love our team. They’ll always  _ be _ our team. We got our start there, we’ll always be Avs at heart. But with you gone, it was like… I just couldn’t find my footing. I missed you so much I  _ ached. _ I was miserable.  _ We _ were miserable. So when my contract expired and they offered me a new one… I said no.”

“You left our team,” Tyson says suddenly. “You  _ left _ them—Gabe, how could you—”

“They’re not children, no matter how much they act like it sometimes,” Gabe interrupts. “They were in the process of naming Nate captain before I got to the airport. They’ll be fine.”

Tyson shakes his head again. “You left them,” he repeats. “For—”

“For you, yes.” Gabe holds his gaze steadily.

“You  _ stupid _ son of a bitch, this is  _ exactly _ what I was trying to avoid,” Tyson snarls, yanking his hand away. 

Gabe flinches but Tyson’s on a roll.

“You’re the face of the Avs,” he spits. “The  _ franchise. _ The team looks to you for—for everything. Leadership, responsibility, teamwork—we worked like we did because of  _ you. _ And you walked away from that? You gave that  _ up?” _

“Of course I did!” Gabe shouts. Tyson blinks, taken aback by the volume, and Gabe stands, running his hands through his hair. “I’m so mad at you,” he says, turning away and then spinning back. “You  _ left _ me, Tyson.”

Tyson opens and closes his mouth. “I got traded, Gabe, remember?”

“No,” Gabe says. “No Tyson, you left  _ me. _ You walked away. From  _ me. _ Remember that? Remember how you got the news and you just. You packed your bags and you hugged everyone and  _ you fucking left me.” _ There are tears standing in his bright blue eyes, and he dashes a hand across them impatiently as Tyson stares up at him, dumbfounded.

“We weren’t—Gabe, we hadn’t….” Tyson fumbles for words. “I didn’t want t-to ask you for—I was going to a different  _ time zone, _ I couldn’t ask you to be in a relationship  _ then.” _

“Why the fuck not?” Gabe demands. “Did you think I’d just… move on, once you were gone? That I’d forget everything?”

Tyson shakes his head dumbly, more in confusion than denial. “You never said—”

“Neither did you!”

“But I had to  _ leave,” _ Tyson manages. “I had to leave you. I d-didn’t want to, but if I’d said something, then you would have felt like you had to choose. You said—” He swallows hard, remembering that night. “You said you never wanted to play anywhere else. That you wanted to retire with the Avs. And I can’t go back there. So—”

“So you did the noble thing and sacrificed what we could have had without asking me.” Gabe looks furious, his face set in hard, cold lines. “And then you fucking  _ ghosted _ me. Do you have any idea how much that hurt me?”

“I’m sorry,” Tyson whispers. “I thought—”

“You thought you knew better,” Gabe snaps. He takes a few steps away, then back. “I’m not stupid, Tyson. Or blind. I knew what we were moving toward. I wanted it too. I wanted  _ you. _ God, I wanted you.”

Past tense. 

“You don’t anymore?” Tyson hates how small his voice is, and Gabe spins to stare at him.

“What?”

“You said… wanted. You d-don’t… anymore?”

Gabe takes three quick steps forward and grabs Tyson’s arms, pulling him upright. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he growls, and crushes their mouths together.

As first kisses go, it’s… not great. Their mouths don’t fit right at first, teeth bumping together, and Gabe is rough and angry, crushing Tyson against his body.

Tyson melts into it, arms going up around Gabe’s neck to hold himself steady, and after a few seconds, some of Gabe’s urgency bleeds away. He tilts his head, cupping the back of Tyson’s neck, and this time they slot together as easy as breathing. Gabe sweeps his tongue inside Tyson’s mouth and Tyson opens for him willingly. They stay like that for several minutes, kissing sweet and slow, until Tyson’s knees give out and Gabe has to catch him again.

He eases him back down to the cushions and kneels beside him. His lips are red, his hair mussed, and he’s the most beautiful thing Tyson’s ever seen.

Tyson closes his eyes and concentrates on regulating his breathing. When he’s sure his voice will stay steady, he says, “You better hope I’m not still contagious.”

Gabe huffs a startled laugh and bends to press his forehead to Tyson’s thigh. “God, I’ve missed you,” he says. 

“I mean it,” Tyson insists. “Don’t go thinking I’m gonna take care of you if you do get sick.”

“Liar,” Gabe says, lifting his head. “You’ll tenderly mop my brow and spoonfeed me soup, you know you will.”

Tyson grumbles, but he can’t stop himself from reaching out to touch Gabe’s face. Gabe’s lashes sweep down and he takes a shaky breath, turning his head to plant a kiss on Tyson’s palm.

“I’m sorry,” Tyson whispers. “I thought—I don’t know. I should have talked to you. I’ve missed you so much, Gabe.”

Gabe opens his eyes. “Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Tyson protests. “I only did it in the first place because I thought you wouldn’t want to choose between me and hockey.”

“God, you’re stupid,” Gabe says, and pulls him down into another kiss. “I don’t  _ have _ to,” he says between kisses, his hands warm on Tyson’s face. “But if I did, I’d still choose you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Tyson says immediately, rearing back in alarm. “Don’t you  _ dare, _ Gabe—”

Gabe is laughing as he tugs him back down. “I won’t. But it’s you, Tys. It always has been, okay?”

The sun lights his hair in a red-gold halo. His eyes are crystal blue, cheeks flushed pink, and Tyson can’t breathe through the happiness that clogs his chest. He traces the curve of Gabe’s mouth, smiling back at him. 

“Okay,” he says, and bends to kiss him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus endeth the working through of my feelings. I will die mad about Tyson being torn away from his family and every time I see him this is all that's running through my mind:
> 
> Also hello I love Joel Edmundson and I need to write more about him.
> 
> [Come talk to me on Tumblr!](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com) Or lurk creepily and watch me flail about stupid boys on knife-shoes, I'm good with that too. Thanks for reading!


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